Lost His Mind
by ashangel101010
Summary: Inspired by Asuka's confrontation with Arael from "Neon Genesis Evangelion". Set during season two's "UnderWorld Overthrown" episode. It's that old recurring dream where you're drowning / flailing your arms out, fearful and frantic . . . its black eyes find you almost at once / you can't hide, swim away, or take air into your lungs / to scream for help that won't come.


Lost His Mind

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Suggested Theme:

Main Theme- Black Eyes by David Wirsig

* * *

Kaz is numb. He is emotionally drained from the failure of his heroic efforts. Heroism only works for Tom, after all. He is also physically numb from Milla'iin's attack. He cannot move his legs, arms, or even his mouth to scream at Milla'iin's creepiness. He does not understand why Milla'iin is coming closer to him when he can simply just brainwash him with a penetrating gaze from a distance.

He can see Milla'iin's eight tentacle arms glowing brightly like lasers being charged to disintegrate someone. Tears, of helplessness and fear of death, escape his rust-brown eyes. He's going to die here. H'earring is going to remain a slave to the M'Arrillians. He's going to die here. He'll never see Chaor defeat the M'Arrillians. He's going to die here. He's never going to be able to port to Chaotic again. He's going to die here.

Milla'iin wraps two tentacles around his throat, which then creeps up to the sides of his head. Another two tentacles dip under his shirt and wrap around his chest; the tips of those tentacles lay over his heart. Two tentacles, one for each of his arms, wrap around his nude arms like slick rope. Disturbingly, the last two tentacles, one for each of his legs, dips under his pants to grip onto his legs' skin.

Kaz stares into the golden void of Milla'iin's vision. And, with the last scrap of his willpower, he opens his mouth.

 _ **AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!**_

* * *

He feels his small, clammy cheek sticks to the cool stone bench like the Band-Aid on his index finger. His cropped, pumpkin-red hair is slick with sweat. He should move off the bench and go inside where the AC could blast him with cold air to combat his summer heat. But he cannot go inside. His brown eyes stare intently…..at **him**.

 _Who is he?_

…It feels like he's been stung by a bee again, but his gaze never wavers from **him**. His daidí. He is tall, maybe 6'3, and broad like a thinner version of Goliath from _"Gargoyles"_. His hair is the color of orange amber with wisps of gold thread about his hair like a tattered veil. His hair is wavy like yellowing grass in the wind, but he has it pulled back in a low ponytail. His hair is longer than mom's; it's long enough that he braids it on some days. He would sweetly joke in his Irish, lilting voice that his long hair was the only warrior part about him. When the wind blows through his ponytail, it's like a comet cracking its tail.

 _You came from him._

More stinging, like when he cut his finger on the barbwire fence yesterday. His dad's hands are occupied with the stone gargoyle before him. He is adding little, finishing details to the gargoyle's face with his precise tools. The gargoyle's lips are curled back to reveal its fangs; it looks ready to attack its creator and rip out his throat. The gargoyle is for a far-away church that believes fire and brimstone is their God's will.

His dad's hands, large and rugged enough to swallow hands like a dragon's mouth, are caked in cloud-gray dust and stone chips. He puts away his tools and claps his hands creating a small dust cloud with his hands like a wizard. He comes over to the stone bench that he carved himself a long time ago.

"I'm all done now, Kazzy. Time to go inside." He scoops his son up like he is about to put him to bed. His son's head rest against his chest like he is a newborn again. His son can hear his heart beat like drums. 1.2..3…4….

He is his son. His son forever. No one else's.

 _So this is your first memory of love._

* * *

He's on the stone bench again, but his daidí isn't here this time. It's nighttime and the clouds have made it seem like the world is nothing but muted shadows. It's not raining, but he feels it should be. It would be appropriate….for what again? He looks down at himself and notices that he's bigger since the last time he was here. His hair is longer than before; almost like dad's, but far too shapeless to be a comet's tail. He's in a black tuxedo with shiny, black dress shoes. Why is wearing these sad, sad clothes?

 _You are trying to reject me, so you can continue repressing your memories._

More stinging like a broken heart, like his mom's tears, like….a buried body. His daidí is in the Otherworld. He's with the fair folk that resemble his sculptures. He looks around the garden. There are statues of humanoid nymphs and fairies playing or kissing each other, their sexes clearly on display, while showing expressions of mischief, lust, joy, and wrath. There are statues of imps and goblins dancing around each other or sharpening their weapons; some are smiling, others are cursing, but they look as alive as the nymphs and fairies. Then, there is the gargoyle…but where is it?

 _Your mind is slipperier than most Creatures' but not as strong. Open your hands._

The stinging is too engrained like rope around a neck. He opens his hands to find the gargoyle. It wasn't the gargoyle from last time because then it would be too big to fit in his measly hands. This gargoyle is standing up like a toy soldier. He is very muscular unlike the slight, scrawny-looking magical creatures in the garden. His stone wings jut out of his scarred back like pieces of battle armor. He has his head proudly tilted upwards like he's a creature made of confidence and victories. His face is a bit more dragon-like than the more traditional lion or griffin face; his teeth are bared like the teeth of a chainsaw. His eyes are not hollow like the rest of the sculptures; his eyes are ice-blue marbles that never will show his true feelings.

 _Your deification of your hero started from an early age, just like your sexuality._

Tears escape his eyes and leave spiritual welts on his heart. He can feel it. He can feel his mind trying to protect him like the barbwire fence around the garden. He's not like the gargoyle in his hands, impervious and victorious. He's not like his daidí, beautiful and dead. He's just Kazdan Kalinkas. He's…..friendless and odious.

He'll never come back here.

 _I want the past. Show me the past._

* * *

His room, his old room in the house that used to be home, is malachite during the day but shamrock-green at night. It's nighttime; he can tell because he can see the stars shining like night lights out his window. He's in his loft bed, under his favorite Gatsby-blue quilt. He's waiting for his daidí, for his nightly goodnight kiss. Maybe tonight he'll get another story about the Otherworld and the fair folk, his and daidí's people.

His white-painted door opens to reveal his daidí shining from the hallway light. He slips in and quietly closes the door; he does not switch on the light in the room. This is all part of their normal routine. Yet, his daidí steps on an old squeaky board that he normally never steps on. The hair on his neck begins to stand up like static. There's a bubble of panic welling in his chest; he doesn't know why. But something bad is about to happen.

"O, Kazzy….." His daidí sounds afraid like he's had one of his night terrors again. He climbs the little wooden ladder and crawls into the loft bed. Kaz isn't disturbed by this; his daidí tends to do this when he has nightmares. Tonight, however, his daidí is trembling like he's loading up the heavy gargoyle statue onto a moving truck again.

"Daidí, what's wrong? Did you have a nightmare again?" Deep down, he knows that's not the case this time. Maybe it has something to do with mom's attitude these past few weeks; her face always seem pinched up in worry and fear whenever she sees daidí. He does not understand why she's been treating daidí like he's a monster. Daidí would never hurt mom.

"No, no…..it's just I have to go away tomorrow morning. I'm…..sick." His daidí is shaking like he might have a fever, but his skin isn't pale and his nose isn't runny. He doesn't look sick, but maybe his sickness is on the inside.

"What kind of sickness?" His dad's earth-brown eyes bore into him like he's soaking in all the details about his son.

"Sickness of the mind, at least that's what the shrink guy said. I have to go because mom doesn't believe in me anymore; perhaps, she never did and can't tolerate me anymore. She doesn't want you to get sick with what I have…" He hears his daidí rummage in his pockets. His daidí pulls out a miniature gargoyle statue that looks like a toy soldier.

"Kaz, I can't protect you anymore. So I give you him. Gargoyles are protectors just like in the cartoon you like to watch. He'll protect you in my stead." His daidí hands him the gargoyle. The gargoyle feels heavy; most of its weight is in its ice-blue eyes.

"Daidí, when will you come back?" He feels like a WWII wife waiting for her husband to return from war.

"The truth is I don't think I will. I love you, but the truth is the truth. Remember, my son, the truth is the truth." The truth is the truth. The truth is the truth. The truth is the truth. They are powerful, last words from his daidí. He'll never forget them as long as he lives. He mutters these words into his daidí's chest until he falls asleep.

 _The truth is the truth. The truth is he—_

* * *

He's in the backseat of his mom's red 1973 Pinto Runabout; his focus is solely on the gargoyle in his hands. It's sunny outside, not a cloud in sight to smudge the bright-blue sky. It'll take a few hours to get home; it'll be nighttime before he reaches home. Home….she's selling it; she says they need a fresh start. They need to forget.

 _Congratulations, you surprised me._

The annoying stinging comes back like a million paper cuts to the jugular. It doesn't matter. He just needs to focus on the gargoyle. The gargoyle will protect him. Daidí said so. The truth is the truth. The truth is the truth. The truth is the truth—

 _Listen to your mother._

"Kaz, you were a brave boy, no man, today." He refuses to look up. He isn't certain if it's out of insolence or anguish.

"Your dad would be very proud of you." He strokes the gargoyle's eyes with his thumb like he's closing the stone creature's eyes. Like they did with his daidí.

"Kaz, dear, I need you to do something for me." His throat closes up like he's choking back a sob again.

"This new town we're moving to, I need you to lie…about how your dad died." His brain is stinging again like someone slit his wrists and poured salt into his wounds. He wants to cover his ears, but he can only tighten his grip onto the gargoyle, hoping for protection.

"When your dad—"

 **No.**

"When your dad—"

 **No!**

"When your dad—"

 **NO!**

"When your dad committed suicide…..he didn't just hurt himself; he hurt us too. If we stay here, then you'll be bullied. I don't want you to bear the sins of your father. So, in the new town, you're going to tell everyone that he died in a mission for the army. He died a hero." She's trying to protect him, even if her protection is wrapped up in guilt and self-preservation. He died a hero. He died a hero. He died a hero. It's a lie. Her lie. And his too.

 **No more, get out of me!**

 _You have so many other memories; I want to see them._

 **I don't need to remember; they'll just kill me.**

 _I have never seen someone die by their own memories._

 **No more, get out of me!**

 _Memories are supposedly part of code. If I unlock all of yours, will I find your code?_

 **NO MORE, GET OUT OF ME!**

 _Your gargoyle cannot protect you._

 **AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!**

* * *

 **Author's Comments-** Yeah, it's obvious this one-shot was going to be anything but pleasant. The "inspired by one of the most disturbing scenes in _Neon Genesis Evangelion_ " should have been the tip-off. I was also inspired by some Freudian (and maybe some other psychologists') theories that I hazily remember from my AP Psychology class and from _Kiss of the Spider Woman_ by Manuel Puig. I had a wicked time with writing this, to the point that I'm mulling over writing a multi-chapter sequel story for this. If I do that, then I'll get rid of _Wayward Power_ because I'm just disinterested with that story.

I've never written about Milla'iin, let alone any M'Arrillian, before. Part of me wants to say that Milla'iin is like a sinister Kaworu Nagisa from _Neon Genesis Evangelion_ or a simplistic Hannibal Lecter. He's neither, or maybe a hellish mixture of the two at times. He is an interesting character to write for; I haven't done anyone sinister or borderline evil since the Wizards of the Black Circle from _Winx Club_. Ah, Kaz, I always make you suffer on some level; either through inconvenience or implied tragedy. And he's my favorite human character!


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